“You know, for a moment today,”—Hanna slid across the bed until their bodies were touching side-to-side—”I really thought I’d lost you.”

Laying her head on Hanna’s shoulder, their cheeks brushing against one another, Liza whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Hanna’s lips brushed softly against Liza’s cheek. “It’s all okay now.” She kissed her again, first by the edge of her jaw, then across her face, and lightly on the lips. And without either of them quite deciding to, they lay down together in a way they hadn’t quite managed since they’d arrived—since before they’d arrived, really, and—

“What’s that smell?” Hanna asked suddenly.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” whispered Liza, ominously aware that it might be something and that it was something she very much did not want to be reminded of.

“This pillow smells of perfume. Not yours, not mine.”

Hanna wasn’t exactly radiating stop-touching-me-now vibes, but Liza backed off. She had a horrible feeling this conversation was about to go to a deeply unromantic, possibly un-staying-married-conducive place. “It’s Ruby’s.”

For a moment, nothing. Then, “She was in our bed?”

“She lay on it for a moment. I was nowhere near her. You already know she was in the room.”

“Yes, but I didn’t know she was in our bed.”

“On our bed. And it’s a hotel bed, so—this isn’t helping, is it.”

Hanna, beautiful and fragile and really pissed off, had withdrawn into herself like a sea anemone. “I know…” she began with the measured tones of somebody who definitely did know but was having a hell of a difficult time believing, “that there is nothing going on there. Nothing I have to be worried about—”

“You don’t,” Liza insisted, slightly too quickly. “You really don’t.”

“Don’t I though?” The expression on Hanna’s face was dejected, almost defeated. “I’ve seen her, and I’ve seen me, and the only thing I’ve got going for me that she hasn’t is that at least with me you know you’ll wake up in the morning.”

“What you’ve got going for you that she hasn’t is that you’re my wife and I love you.” Liza knew the moment she’d said it that it was the wrong thing to say.

“That sounds a lot like it’s about obligation, rather than about me personally.”

Liza sighed and tried not to make it sound angry. “No, it’s about ten years of choosing you. Every day.”

“You’ve had that many other offers, huh?” Hanna was clearly trying to make it sound like a joke, but there was a stomach-churning edge of sincerity to it.

Liza tried to backpedal, but she was too exhausted. “What? No. I just mean—oh, forget it.”